My Mistake

Amidst the glamour and fanfare I catch a glimpse of a fine creature, seated in a pose of feminine grandeur. Whether by way of the dimmed house lights, or flickering candles, the shadows fall upon her features like gentle feathered strokes.

Battling between the throng, the vision of my lady weaves in and out of sight, the distance between us retreating. Her pale golden head leans in as others share a plight, and laughter peels, her eyes dancing with delight.

At last the crowd dissolves. Mere steps within reach of the hub of tassel, corset and organza clad dancing ladies. Fine boned specimens, their limbs of muscle throbbing and firmly heeled.

Her plumed head bowed, my amour’s fine cheek bones sparkle of stage powders, and those full lips glisten a berry red smile. A graceful hand of painted nails presses to her sturdy chin and tilts to behold the blossom I proffer.

Then, comprehension ignites and oh my God, the lady is no more, for six foot two, with Adam’s apple and graceless build she stands to take my hand.

In haste, retreating to the shadows, to struggle with control, I snatch the blossom to my chest, and blame the dull décor. “Forgive me, ma’am,” I’m want to blurt, flushed with such discomfort, “I’ve misidentified you somehow. My mistake.”